


In My Time of Need

by chocolateghost



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Dust Bowl, F/M, Great Depression, Jon Snow is a Stark, Not really any plot, all the other starks are either dead or in california, just a snapshot of life, kinda sad but still a bit sweet, the starks will endure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 14:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15075545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateghost/pseuds/chocolateghost
Summary: "It’s funny sometimes - what a man can get used to over a lifetime. Getting used to a job, a wife, a child, hell even the weather - that’s easy stuff. Anybody could do that. Those things are expected. It's the unexpected that's hard. A sudden death in the family, war, lost love - those things catch a man off guard. Those things take time to get used to. But something a man never thinks he’ll experience - something a man never expects at all - that is an almost impossible thing to get used to. And that is exactly what the dust is to Jon."A quick peek into Jon and Sansa's life in the Dust Bowl/Great Depression.





	In My Time of Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts), [kittykatknits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittykatknits/gifts).



> Gifting this to two lovely ladies who love history just as much as I do! ❤️❤️
> 
> Big thank you to Kelly for the gorgeous moodboard! Love you! ❤️ 
> 
> For the sake of the story I'm playing pretty fast and loose with both the history and geography of Oklahoma. If you know much about Oklahoma, you might recognize a number of references to real life places and events. I meant to do more research and be staunchly accurate, but then as I was writing I decided that I really liked the feel of this kind of loose narrative instead. I'm a born and raised Okie so I get a free pass. :P
> 
> While writing this I had Ryan Adams' "[In My Time of Need](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mpBPs-IgQ4)" playing on repeat. It's a total Dust Bowl ballad all the way. I've included a bit of the lyrics in the fic here and I highly recommend listening to the song while reading. Really sets the mood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Will you comfort me, in my time of need?_  
>  _Can you take away the pain of hurtful deeds?_  
>  _‘Cause when we need it most, there's no rain at all_  
>  _And the dust just settles right there on the feed_  
>    
>  _Will you say to me, "A little rain's gonna come"_  
>  _When the sky can't offer none to me?_  
>  _'Cause I will come for you_  
>  _When my days are through_  
>  _And I'll let your smile just off and carry me_
> 
> "In My Time of Need"
> 
> \-- Ryan Adams

 

It’s funny sometimes - what a man can get used to over a lifetime. Getting used to a job, a wife, a child, hell even the weather - that’s easy stuff. Anybody could do that. Those things are expected. It's the unexpected that's hard. A sudden death in the family, war, lost love - those things catch a man off guard. Those things take time to get used to. But something a man never thinks he’ll experience - something a man never expects at all - that is an almost impossible thing to get used to. And that is exactly what the dust is to Jon.

It permeates every nook and cranny of his life. If you cracked open his skull, you’d probably find the dust in there too. There was simply no escaping it. No amount of baths could ever rid you of it. It’s a constant presence on your skin, never quite leaving and making you itch all over. It sifts in through the smallest cracks in the house, covering the furniture, the clothes, and the food. If the day should ever come when Jon doesn’t have to taste the gritty crunch of dust, he will die a happy man.

It’s well into autumn now. It should be harvest time. Jon should be busy loading up mountains of crops in the truck and hauling them into town for sale. He should be making money hand over fist to keep Winterfell afloat. Instead, Jon just sits on the porch and watches the sun peek out over the horizon. His hands busy themselves whittling on a block of wood with an old pocket knife. They itch to do some real honest work like the old days, but right now there’s simply not much to be done.

Jon used to rise every morning before dawn and tend to his chores. Now he just wakes up and exists. The dust destroyed everything. The crops were all killed and the livestock are sick and dying. The once thriving Winterfell Farms is now a ruin.

Winterfell - what a joke of a name for a farm in Oklahoma. Not much winter around these parts. Least not these days. Just summers hotter than hellfire and whatever happens in between. The name supposedly went back a couple generations when grandpappy Rickard first staked his claim in the great Land Run of ‘89. He was one of them "sooners." Named it as a tribute to the old country where winters would cripple and freeze those that did not respect it. Now it just serves as a reminder to Jon of something else he doesn’t deserve.

He sets the wood and knife down and scrubs a hand over his beard. He briefly thinks about Uncle Ned’s old pearl-handled straight razor - Ice, he called it - that’s probably rusting somewhere covered in dust. Jon’s not felt like shaving in ages. Probably since Arya and the boys went out west.

Shaving had, once upon a time, been a part of his daily ritual. The methodical slick of the blade on his skin as he cut the whiskers from his face had been calming - soothing even. Used to be the perfect way to start the day. That and one of Sansa’s hearty breakfasts. Now though, each day bleeds into the next and there’s almost nothing good about any of them.

As the sun rises higher, Jon wonders if maybe God is punishing him. What for? He has no clue. But it’s always been a thought in the back of his mind. A feeling that has never quite escaped him in all these years.

His mother, Lyanna, had left Winterfell as a young girl with dreams of something bigger, only to come back home from Tulsa pregnant and alone. She died giving birth to him right here in the farmhouse. Never knowing either of his parents, Jon was raised under the care and guidance of his uncle and aunt and the rest of their children on the farm. Uncle Ned was the father he never had. Taught him right and wrong and how to be a man. Aunt Catelyn was kind to him. Robb had been his brother and his best friend. And Arya, Bran, and Rickon - his pride and joy.

But Sansa had always secretly been his favorite. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen since he was knee high to a grasshopper. She was a real beauty. Always has been. Still is. As youngsters, Jon courted her often. She was the apple of his eye and everyone knew it.  A proper lady through and through, worthy of so much more than to be stuck as the lowly wife of a farmer. He can’t help but wonder if she would have been happier living in the city surrounded by high society types. He doesn’t dwell on that thought too often. She’s made her choices just like he has.

When America entered the Great War, Jon and Robb had both enlisted in the army, eager to fight for their country. He made a promise to Sansa that he would come back from the war and marry her. He would take her away from the farm and they would go wherever she wanted. Jon kept a photograph of her and one of her handwritten letters in his breast pocket while away in France. They were his only warmth while stuck deep in the cold muddy trenches. He read that letter a million times and would gaze lovingly at her face and imagine she was there with him. Her memory had kept him going. Her love had kept him alive.

Three nights before Armistice Day, Robb was killed by shrapnel from a mortar shell. Jon had been devastated. They were always supposed to go off to war together and come back home together. They did keep that promise. Unfortunately one of them had to come back home in a pine box.

Oklahoma only held more tragedy. Uncle Ned had been murdered in cold blood by the Bolton bastard while they’d been away at war. That, coupled with hearing the news that her oldest son had died in the war, made Aunt Catelyn’s poor heart give out. A double funeral was held for mother and son and the family buried them next to Uncle Ned under the giant oak tree at the local cemetery.

True to his word, Jon made an honest woman of Sansa. But they had no time for a honeymoon. With both Uncle Ned and Robb dead, the burden of Winterfell was thrust upon Jon’s shoulders. Something he had never wanted. The farm had prospered in the ‘20s. The economy was strong and the crop yields were high. He and Sansa welcomed child after child, filling the old farmhouse with joy and laughter once again. Things were good for a time.

But then the depression hit and the dust came with it. Winterfell fell on hard times. Jon heard stories of people losing everything. Rumor had it that the old Targaryen oil tycoon had hit rock bottom and hung himself in his big fancy mansion out in Ponca. Lannister Financial has been on Jon’s hind end for payments ever since the crash. It’s a sad day whenever those bastards from the bank come and pester him for more money.

And the dust... It was as if one day everything was green and then the next it was brown. Almost like one of the plagues of Egypt. Black Sunday, they called it. That was one of the worst. They say some of the dust from that storm made it all the way to Washington DC and New York City. Jon is almost glad for it. Give them big city folks a taste of what they're getting out here in the country. There hasn’t been a dust storm that bad in a long while, but they still happen every now and then. Doesn’t seem like they’ll ever really quit.

Sometimes Jon wishes he'd packed up the rest of the family and headed out west on the Mother Road with Arya, Bran, and Rickon.

“I ain't stayin’ in this place another damned minute,” she had said. Arya had hated what had happened to her family. She hated the feeling of the dust on her skin and seeing the farm in such poor condition. She and her beau, Gendry, Bran, and Rickon left early one morning to head out to sunny California by way of 66.

“I promise I’ll write when I can,” she’d told him. “We’ll send back any money we make. And hopefully someday soon we’ll come home.” They’d packed up the old jalopy and drove off into the dust. Jon can still picture the muddy tear tracks from the dust on her cheeks as she waved goodbye.

It’s been a few years now. In her letters she said work was hard to come by. They have to fight for just about any scrap they can get. Both Jon and Sansa have begged her to just come back home. Stubborn as a mule though, Arya refuses every time, instead sending whatever meager earnings she gets back to them. Jon knows that Sansa often prays for their safety and well-being, hoping they can all come home soon. He hopes she’s right.

Jon hasn’t prayed in a long time, but as the sun gets a little higher up in the sky and he sees a few clouds start forming, he entertains the thought of praying for rain. What he wouldn’t give to see a real storm again - to feel those raindrops on his face cleansing him of the wretched dust that cakes his body and clogs his lungs. It would be like a second baptism, washing away all his sins and transgressions.

Last year he’d seriously considered selling the farm to the bank and joining Arya and the boys out west. The Tarlys had done it. They'd had no other choice. Seems like everyone was leaving. Every time Jon drove into town, he’d see another abandoned farm that had once been rich and vibrant. When he told her his thoughts of leaving, Sansa had had a few choice words for him.

“This is our home, Jon Stark. Our family has lived here for generations. We are not leaving it.”

He’d tried to reason with her, telling her there was no money and no future here. But she wouldn’t have any of that.

“What did Pa always say? ‘Winter is coming.’ Well I'm pretty sure winter is here. Now I weren't expecting it to be no dust storm, but this is what the Lord has decided to test us with. The Starks will endure. We always have.”

She was right. Jon couldn’t disagree with that. She could always do that to him - make him feel better. But he just couldn’t help wanting more. He wanted to be off with Sansa and the kids living a good life. Someplace where ain’t nobody ever heard of Oklahoma. Someplace nice. Someplace covered in lemon trees - Sansa always liked lemons. Jon would love nothing more than to take that $15 hidden above the stove and spoil her with it. Lord knows she deserves it for keeping this household running as good as she does. But there’s the farm and the children to think of. And Jon knows he can’t just shirk his responsibilities, much as he'd like to.

Little Robb is almost a man grown now. He’s been trying to help out as much as he can. Little Cat is as much a lady as her mama. And little Neddie is already smart as a whip. Jon hates the fact that they have to grow up here on this godforsaken piece of earth. His children should have a better life. Not waste away here and be buried under dust.

From behind him, he hears Sansa whistling “Keep on the Sunny Side” and feels the warm touch of her hand on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. His once tension-filled body softens and he places a rough well-worked hand on top of hers.

“Breakfast is ready, Jon.”

“I’ll be there.”

She hums in agreement, but instead of releasing his shoulder and going back inside, she lingers and points a finger north. “See those clouds over yonder? Yes sir, I think it just might rain today. Wouldn’t that be a sight for sore eyes?”

She looks down on him with a sweet smile on her face, which Jon can't help but return. She makes to leave, but he grabs her wrist, and pulls her down into his lap.

“Jon! The children!” She squeals as he hugs her tightly to him, kissing her forehead. She melts into him just as she always does. He looks at her hard. Maybe her hair is a bit duller and her face more wrinkled, but her eyes still shine just as bright as ever. And her smile still lights his heart on fire. She’s just as beautiful as the day he married her.

He wants to ask her how she does that - make him feel better. She can do it without even trying. She truly is a singular woman. One he is proud to call his wife.

“Thank you, Sansa.” He doesn’t tell her what for and she doesn’t ask.

“I love you, husband.”

“And I, you, wife.”

They sit there for a moment snuggling in each other’s arms before she straightens up quickly.

“OH! Bob Wills will be broadcasting tonight from Cain’s Ballroom!” Sansa beams at him. She listens to the radio as often as she can. It helps pass the time as she mends clothes or sews new ones. She loves music - be it old-timey, gospel, or country. Jon’s never been much of a fan, but he does enjoy seeing her happy. And he would gladly sit through any radio show to see that smile.

“I look forward to it, sweetheart. Now let’s go eat. I’m starved.”

Sansa hops off his lap and gives him a quick kiss on his cheek before heading back inside through the screen door. Jon can hear the kids talking and laughing at the table. He brushes the dust off the arms of the old rocking chair and stands up, stretching his already tired muscles. He takes one last look out at those clouds up north and says a little prayer to God that they head on over to the farm and overflow with rain. Just this once.


End file.
